Harley looked over at Bryson who was still glaring at him. He got out a packet of Gold Flake and tossed a cigarette at each of the men in the room, then sparked up one for himself.
‘Alright—let me have all you’ve got on this Wild Cat International Brigade.’
Joe nodded warily at Pearson.
‘It’s alright,’ said Harley, ‘he’s been seconded to me by FW.’
‘I thought it was the other way round, actually,’ said Pearson, quietly.
‘Schtum, Albert! Go on, Joe—I’ll vouch for him. We’re both working directly for Swales.’
‘Alright,’ said Joe, striking a match on the sole of his shoe to light his cigarette. ‘Well, it would appear that this Wild Cat Anarchists’ Brigade are a ghost outfit. Oh, there’s plenty of rumours about them on the street—who might be behind them, where they hold their meetings, who’s funding them. But we can’t make contact with any single person who is an actual member. And believe me, we’ve tried our damnedest.’
‘So, in your opinion they don’t exist? It’s just some hoaxer cashing in on a lone killer’s rampage?’
‘Oh no—I didn’t say that. For a start I don’t think one person working alone could manage so many attacks without giving something away. And it’s highly likely that someone is seeding the rumours as well—there’s intelligence out there that couldn’t have come from the newspapers.’
‘Of course, there’s always the chance that the information is coming from the Met,’ added Bryson, smiling sarcastically at Pearson. ‘We all know our boys in blue leak like a colander.’
‘And this Johann Most reference?’ asked Harley, ignoring Bryson’s comment.
Joe shook his head.
‘We’re almost certain there’s no connection with any of the German anarchist groups; most of them have their hands full back home dealing with the National Socialists.’
‘And what about any Russian connection? There’s the statement from the clippie about the bomber on the tram—he said the geezer had a Russian accent. And there’s the unexploded dynamite we found in Spitalfields, after the last blast.’
‘That was you?’
‘Me and Pearson, here. The stamp on the wrapper was Russian; but not Soviet Russia, pre-revolutionary—Tsarist.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Bryson.
‘Because I photographed it for evidence and then looked it up, that’s how!’
‘Well, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t supplied by the Soviets, does it?’
‘There’s another link to Russia,’ said Joe, refilling his glass. ‘We heard talk of this new character in town—a Ruskie, big bear of a man, a real presence apparently. He was going around all the local watering holes, flashing his money, buying everyone drinks. The talk was that he was looking for recruits for some big job. Wanted to hear from any real ruthless types, anyone who’d risk a little danger for a big pay packet.’
‘And he was definitely Russian?’
‘Yes. Our source even pinpointed the accent—Ukrainian, apparently.’
Harley looked at Pearson.
‘Did this fella have a tattoo?’
‘Not that I know of. At least it was never mentioned—why?’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘A couple of weeks at the most. We were getting pretty close … in fact Bryson and I were waiting at a pub where he was due to meet a couple of possible recruits one night. But he didn’t show. Since then the trail has gone cold—he just disappeared.’
‘Did your man have a big beard?’
‘Yes, he did, as it happens … Come on then, Harley—out with it. Have you got a name for this character?’
‘From the sound of it, it could be our Daubeney chauffeur—the one that was blown up at the Spitalfields blast. He had a Ukrainian tattoo, the beard, he was a big man … And I’m also beginning to think that he’s our mystery man on the tram, as well.’
‘But he’s dead now?’
‘The chauffeur? Oh yeah—he’s dead, alright.’
‘Well, that doesn’t get us much further ahead, really then, does it?’ said Bryson.
Harley gave him a dismissive look, and went to tip his hat back—but on discovering he was still wearing his working man’s cap he settled for pushing the peak up a little.
‘Is there anything else that you can tell us about this Wild Cat mob, Joe?’
‘Wish I could, but we’ve been drawing blanks here, George. What I will say is that all the bombings attributed to them have stoked up some real bad feelings amongst the locals. Everyone’s looking for someone to blame, the usual suspects, you know—the Irish, the Jewish community … BBF membership has more than doubled around here in the last two months. God knows what’s going to happen if this Blackshirt march goes ahead. It won’t be pretty.’
‘No, I know … Talking of the BBF—am I right in thinking that Earl Daubeney is still heavily involved in the party?’
Harley noticed Joe’s quick glance over at Bryson.
‘We’ve reason to believe he’s an executive member.’
‘And probably Lieutenant General in their militia’s ranks,’ added Bryson.
Both agents were looking at him expectantly.
‘Why do you ask, George?’ said Joe.
‘Well, we’ve just come from giving his Lordship’s place in Belgravia the once-over. While we were there a diplomat’s motor from the Italian Embassy turned up.’
‘You’re certain it was the Italian embassy?’
‘No doubt about it—the bonnet had the little blue flag with the fasces on it.’
Harley watched as Bryson gave an almost imperceptible nod to his partner.
‘Looks like the connection might not be such a surprise to you boys … but there’s more. When the car pulls up, out get these two characters who just happen to be the two I fancy for a murder we’re investigating. One of them’s a big old lump … but my guess is he’s just the strong-arm—it’s the other fella I’m really interested in.’
‘Describe him,’ said Joe.
‘About five six in his stocking feet, wiry like an athlete, jet-black hair, sallow complexion … and a big old scar running up from the side of his mouth. The kind of cut they give a nark. Oh, and he’s nimble on his toes—I saw him scale a brick wall like a cat.’
‘Girardi,’ said Bryson to Joe, nodding his head.
‘Yeah, that’s the fella’s name,’ said Harley. ‘Signor Girardi. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Let’s see now,’ said Joe. ‘Ludovico Girardi … Italian national … Up until his twenties he was a gymnast in the circus; that was until the circus owner discovered Girardi giving a little private performance for his wife. He had Girardi beaten up and thrown out on the road with just the clothes he had on his back. Then the show moved on to the next town. Our man didn’t take too kindly to the humiliation. He made his way on foot to the next pitch, stole into the owner’s caravan and killed him by hammering a tent peg through his eye. For some reason—and we don’t know why—Girardi managed to escape the firing squad and was given twenty years. While serving his time he came into contact with the Cosa Nostra.’
‘Cosa Nostra?’ asked Pearson. He’d been sitting so quietly that the others had almost forgotten he was there.
‘The Mafia,’ said Harley. ‘You know—like in the movies. Only this lot are a real bunch of nasty cowsons, not a load of actors swanning around in makeup.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Joe. ‘Surprise, surprise—as soon as Girardi starts mixing with the families he has his sentence commuted and is released within two years. Back out on the streets he starts running errands for his new friends. Then he gets more heavily involved— extortion, prostitution, you know the kind of thing. Before long he’s moved up the ranks … Then the Fascists came to power. As you know, that didn’t work out too well for the Cosa Nostra.’
‘Why?’ asked Pearson.
‘Mussolini cracked down hard on them,’ explained Harley. ‘He turned their own
tactics on them—kidnapping their relatives, slaughtering farm animals, torturing associates into confessions. By the end of the twenties most of ’em were languishing in prison. So what happened to our little acrobat, Joe?’
‘Ah, well, little Ludovico is nothing if not a survivor, George. He quickly saw which way the wind was blowing and switched sides. He had no qualms about informing on all of his former associates.’
‘I’m guessing that’s where he got that little souvenir on his cheek?’
‘That’s right—some of the gang got suspicious and followed him to an assignation with a government agent; although how he escaped with his life is beyond me.’
‘Well, he climbs like a cat—maybe he’s got nine lives as well?’
‘You could be right. Anyway, the time spent with the Mafia had turned Girardi into a ruthless killer and enforcer, and his unique set of skills didn’t go unnoticed by the new boys in town. Before long the poacher had turned gamekeeper and he was recruited by OVRA.’
Harley noticed Pearson’s quizzical look.
‘Mussolini’s secret police,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Listen, Joe, I’m guessing by the way you’re able to recite Signor Girardi’s life story, that you’ve read his case file a number of times in the last few weeks—so it’s no coincidence that we saw him outside Daubeney’s gaff?’
‘Hold on, Joe,’ said Bryson. ‘Can I have a word?’
The two agents left the room and closed the door behind them. There was murmuring from outside in the passage, and before long Joe returned and threw his cigarette end into the fireplace.
‘That’s it, George. I’m afraid we’ve given you as much as we can for today.’
‘Really? And it was just getting interesting … Listen, if you’re worried about Albert here, he’s staunch. I’ll vouch for him.’
‘If afraid that’s not your call, George.’
‘Lives are at stake here,’ added Bryson, returning to the room, ‘—our lives.’
Harley nodded.
‘Fair enough … Alright, Albert. It looks like it’s back to the motor then—if we’ve still got a motor, that is.’
‘Hold on,’ said Bryson, holding up his hand. ‘I don’t want you two just sauntering out of here together, as bold as brass.’
‘Yeah, I agree,’ said Joe. ‘If anyone did see you coming in that’s bound to give the game away. Karl, take Albert out the same way he came in—with a bag over his head. Harley, you walked in as though you were expected, so that’s how you go out as well; but give it a few minutes after they’ve gone.’
‘Come on then—let’s get your hood on,’ said Bryson, picking up the hessian sack from the floor.
‘What do you think, Harley?’ asked Pearson.
‘I’m afraid your mate doesn’t have a say in this, chum,’ said the agent, thrusting the sack into the policeman’s hands. ‘You’re playing with the big boys now. You’ll do as we say.’
‘Go ahead, Albert,’ said Harley, placing a reassuring hand on Pearson’s shoulder. ‘It’s not a bad idea.’
‘My, we are honoured!’ said Bryson, sarcastically.
‘Alright, if you think it’s best … Well, good to meet you Joe,’ said Pearson. ‘Hope I haven’t ruined the operation. No hard feelings, eh?’
Joe shook the policeman’s hand.
‘Alright, Albert. Take care.’
Pearson donned the hessian sack and was promptly thrust out of the door by Bryson and frogmarched across the square.
Harley watched them disappear into the alleyway and then closed the door and flopped down into one of the shabby armchairs.
‘Come on then, spill the beans’ said Harley. ‘What’s the job?’
‘Uh-uh, I’m afraid you’re not getting anything more, George. Bryson may be a pain in the backside, but he’s my partner, and I’ve got to respect his decision. He’s right when he says our lives are at stake.’
‘Really? Well then, my guess is that you’re up to more than just sniffing around after mystery anarchists; I reckon you’re—’
‘I mean it, George! Not another word!’
‘Alright, alright …’ said Harley, standing up and checking his watch. He wandered to the window and pulled back the net curtain to peer out. ‘It’s probably best to leave a decent gap before I follow on. I reckon we’ve got time for a quick cuppa, don’t you? Where’s the stove?’ he asked, making his way towards the door leading to the back room, ‘Out the back here?’
‘Whoa! Hold on! I know your little tricks, George Harley. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. You’ll be out the back rooting through all our gear whilst my back is turned. You stay put—I’ll make the tea.’
‘Please yerself! Nice and strong then, with two sugars.’
Once he could hear the sound of the kettle being filled Harley moved swiftly and quietly to make a quick search of the room. There was nothing to be found in the sideboard or in the pile of papers on the small occasional table, and a quick check under the cushions of the two shabby armchairs was equally disappointing. However, a rummage through Joe’s overcoat proved most interesting.
‘Well, well, well! That’s the game is it?’ murmured Harley to himself, examining the British Brotherhood of Fascists membership card and another document which confirmed that a certain “Joe Schmidt” had been accepted as a candidate for the BBF’s Elite Bodyguard unit.
On hearing the clinking of mugs from the kitchen he quickly thrust the papers back into place, hung the overcoat up behind the door, and composed himself nonchalantly in the armchair to await Joe’s reappearance.
***
Billy Boyd moved further back into the shadows of the smoke-blackened room and watched the front door open in the house with the yellow curtains. It had been a good quarter of an hour now since he’d followed the young copper back to the van, and he’d begun to think that George Harley must have changed his disguise and slipped past him unnoticed. But no—here was the private detective now, being shown out into the quadrangle, still in his workman’s cap and scarf. Now, if only he could see the face of the character showing him out.
Boyd removed his billycock, crouched low, took a couple of shuffling steps closer to the window and slowly edged his face over the charred sill. As soon as he got a glimpse of the bearded face he dropped down out of sight.
‘Hello …’ he mumbled, under his breath. ‘Joe Schmidt, eh? Our loyal little Blackshirt! … Ludo’s gonna love this.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From their vantage point in the shadow of one of the large lime trees that lined the suburban avenue, Girardi and Boyd watched across the street as the door to the semi-detached was opened.
‘Here we are now, Billy,’ said the Italian, winding down the passenger side window so that the larger man could get a better look at the middle-aged man who was exiting the house carrying two heavy suitcases. ‘Pay close attention.’
Having struggled through the garden gate, the man shuffled with his load to a family car parked in the road. He dropped the heavy cases on the pavement and rubbed at his lower back, before opening the back door and heaving the baggage inside. Wiping the sweat form his brow, he consulted his watch and then turned to the house and shouted in a Lancashire accent.
‘Come on, Gladys! Where the bloody hell are yer? We’re supposed to be at the rehearsal studios in twenty minutes, lass!’
Across the street Girardi handed Boyd a theatre programme, on the cover of which was an illustration of a stage magician in a top hat, his saturnine features illuminated from below by a mysterious green glow.
‘Valentine Medini—I believe he is becoming quite the star, no?’
Boyd looked back at the balding, non-descript character catching his breath on the pavement.
‘Blimey—he ain’t much like his mugshot, is he?’
‘The secret to his art is in the make-believe, Billy. With enough skill and imagination you can make the audience believe in whatever you wish—a little like politics. You understand?’
The front door of the house now re-opened and a blonde bustled out, laden with hatboxes and vanity cases.
‘Of course, Medini is just his stage name. Away from the theatre he is William Chadwick. See now, the woman? She is Gladys Chadwick—both the wife and the lovely assistant.’
‘I get it—the judy he saws in ’alf, right?’
Girardi smiled at the big man’s innocent enthusiasm.
‘Yes, that’s right, Billy. And that is their house, si? The home of William and Gladys … and old Mrs. Chadwick.’
Boyd looked a little puzzled.
‘The mother of William—si?’
‘Oh, yus! I see, Ludo. Very cosy-like.’
‘Now, Billy—look at their car, remember the model. You know this car?’
Boyd looked over to where the couple were stacking the remaining luggage into the vehicle.
‘Yeah, the blue Hillman 14—I got it.’
‘Good … You see, The Great Medini is getting ready for a show, the biggest show of his life—although, of course, he doesn’t know that yet. They will be rehearsing all this week, somewhere in the city. Follow them, my friend. Learn their routine, the route they take to the studio and so on. Try to get a look at the costumes they will wear and the … what is the word? Ah, yes—the props they will use. But be careful, Billy—no violence. Not yet. We don’t want to scare our little rabbits away, you understand?’
‘Yus—of course … But I don’t see what this has got to do with it all, Ludo. I mean, these showbiz sorts—what use are they to us, eh?’
‘Well, Billy, your work in Stepney—following Harley and the policeman—this was very good work, you know?’
‘Really? Was Sir Pelham very pleased?’
‘Pleased? Well, I don’t think what you discovered about the traitor Schmidt made Sir Pelham happy, Billy … but he does understand now just how useful you are to the cause.’
‘Who’d ’ave thought it, eh? Joe Schmidt, a copper’s nark … or probably a copper ’imself.’
Mask of the Verdoy Page 26